Wednesday, February 25, 2015

“The
following day, no one died” (Saramago, 1). This matter-of-fact statement is the
first sentence of Saramago’s exquisitely translated Portuguese novel, Death with Interruptions*. The New
Year ushers in an unprecedented phenomenon for a single, unidentified country.
Who needs Dick Clark or Ryan Seacrest celebrating your unattainable resolutions
when you have something like eternal life to dissuade you from starting a diet?

While the
prospect of immortality sounds initially alluring, the pragmatic implications
quickly extinguish the citizens’ enthusiasm.What does this mean for religion? It calls into question centuries of
resurrection-related dogma and challenges the existence of God as well as His
range of omnipotence. What does this mean politically? How do government officials
assuage the masses and how do they respond to an uncontrollable new
demographic? What does this mean for the economy? In what ways will
long-established industries like health-care, funeral homes, and insurance
companies reorient themselves now that their public services are practically
obsolete?

There are
also philosophical repercussions—will lawlessness ensue now that death cannot
be held up as a deterrent? The sudden disappearance of death welcomes a
contentious debate about the nature of death herself (death has historically
been personified as a female and Saramago continues with this gendered
pronoun). Death has forgone her duties in this country alone and while humans
still stand, plants and animals continue to perish; thus, many people logically
deduce that there is hierarchy of deaths separated by taxonomic rank, nation,
etc. This visceral reaction of the humans in the story to try and understand
and define concepts that lay beyond their grasp and are perhaps unknowable is
one of the more interesting threads of the novel. The book is rife with
references to what is seemingly “natural”/“normal”, and it upholds a steady
unease that humanity bears whenever the order and structure of society is
twisted. We eventually adjust, but we have a hard time rollin with the punches.

In their
efforts to adapt, the country’s inhabitants get creative. Some defy death by
transporting their suffering, catatonic friends and family across the border,
where they instantly decease. Noticing an opportunity to exploit, a
body-smuggling organization called the “maphia” (a very basic mafia, indeed) surfaces. Their actions open up a can of
morality worms and a controversial dispute erupts over whether the process is
murder, suicide, or something else altogether. But, as the narrator reminds us,
this is what happens “when pragmatism takes up the baton and conducts the
orchestra, ignoring what is written in the score” (Saramago, 59).

The musical
motif remains consistent throughout the novel, as the second half depicts death
taking on a human form and, much to her surprise, falling in love with a
cellist. Once her deprivation-of-death experiment takes its toll, she dabbles
in other tweaks of the age-old system, one of which leads her to an unexpected
obstacle. The cellist, through seemingly no volition of his own, refuses to
die. Death is flabbergasted! She does not know what to do because she has been
in the business for so long that she can’t even remember who put her in charge;
therefore, she has no one to consult. Instead, she takes matters into her own
hands, bringing personification to a whole new level in order to personally
analyze her preposterous death-defyer. Death portrayed as a sentient being
allows Saramago’s skills to really shine. She is fallible to some degree and
she expresses feelings of restlessness, intrigue, exhaustion, etc. Saramago
invites us to think differently about a typically chilling subject. He
penetrates our reflections on a morbid subject without being piercing; the
subject is confronted creatively enough to not feel too depressing and as such,
he lends something very beautiful to the macabre.

Even more
inventively, the writing style reads like a well-organized stream of
consciousness. Death is interrupted but Saramago’s sentences certainly are not.
One paragraph can run on for pages and a single sentence can often contain a
lengthy dialogue. A conversation within an individual sentence is divided by
capitalization; one person speaks for a bit and instead of an indention or
period, the other person continues with a capital letter marking the beginning
of their speech. It took a while to get used to and it is the chief source of
complaint among those who do not like the novel; however, I think it is a
refreshing take on the traditional grammatical system. His narrative is out of
the box, why can’t his syntax be aberrant as well?

Additionally,
he develops a communal experience between the narrator and the reader, often
using the word “we”. The narrator openly admits to wanting the reader to
understand the plotline, so he apologizes when he feels he described something
imperfectly and he always strives to go back and explain any narrative holes.
It’s okay narrator, I forgive you—you did a good job.

Between the
ingenious tale, his unique linguistic structure, and his congenial narrator,
Saramago proves he is worthy of the Nobel Prize of Literature that he received.
He can sing “Started from the Bottom” and mean it much more than Drake can
(please check out that ridiculous music video which makes me doubt my affinity
for Drizzy). Saramago was born to a peasant family in 1922 and was forced to
drop out of his school at age twelve. When he died, 20,000 people attended his
funeral—a bold testament to his impactful writing as well as his influence in
political and philosophical circles. Perhaps he writes the way he does because
the basic rules of grammar were covered in seventh grade? Most importantly,
“Saramago” translates to “wild radish” in Portuguese, which sounds like
something Gwenyth Paltrow would name her offspring. Also, radishes—like all
vegetables—are gross.

Overall,
this book was a delight to read. Not only did it provide a thought-provoking
set of perspectives (the relationship of people to death and the relationship
of death to people), it’s also pretty funny! Death has some comical
conversations with her co-worker scythe and Saramago inputs plenty of irony and
relevant puns that are slightly better than these:

Furthermore, I enjoyed his expert employment of the
symphonic metaphor. I spotted several parallels between the music that the
cellist plays and life’s own orchestra. For instance, death enjoyed her cellist’s
tune “because of its tragic brevity, its desperate intensity, and also because
of that final cord, like an ellipses left hanging in the air, something yet to
be said” (Saramago, 194). And if you find yourself getting bogged up in the
impossibility of the story, just remember, “all the many things that have been
said about god and about death are nothing but stories, and this is just
another one”, so add it to the shelf (Saramago, 162). In sum, I give the book 4
out of 5 camel humps. It is a novel absolutely
worth reading and a book worth thinking about, but it did not stir me to a full
five humps.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

I’m supposed to think this is like
God’s gift to prose, right? Well honestly, I’m left a little wanting.
Ironically, two major themes of On the
Road*—restlessness and dissatisfaction with what is in front of you—were
two emotions I experienced mid-read. Now that I’ve really set this novel up for
death-by-review, I’ll outline its plot, its shortcomings, and even some
potential redeeming factors.

Similar to roman à
clef novels I’ve reviewed in the past (The Things They Carried, The Rum Diary, Ham On Rye, and The Bell Jar), the characters in
this story correspond to Kerouac’s real-life friends and the narrative reveals
their actual adventures on the road from 1947 to 1950. The book follows Sal
Paradise (Kerouac) as he embarks on several journeys to the West and eventually
Mexico, making notable pit stops in San Francisco, Denver, and Chicago. He is regularly
accompanied by Dean Moriarty—the fictional version of Neal Cassady. Other
memorable authors such as Ken Kesey and Hunter S. Thompson also immortalize
Cassady’s craziness in their own works. Clearly, I need to find better, cooler,
famous author friends.

The original manuscript was written
on a thirty-foot long scroll—probably the dopest thing about this book. It
currently resides in the home of the owner of the Indianapolis Colts, right
next to a briefcase full of pills and a voodoo doll of Tom Brady holding an
under-inflated football. It epitomizes the “Beat Generation”, a group of
post-World War II creative types that focused on alternative, counter-culture
lifestyles, often invoking elements considered conventionally obscene. “Beat”
connotes the state of being weary/worn down as well as a musical beat
(specifically jazz in this novel). So, why are these guys so tired? Should they
perhaps take a nap? In reality, it runs slightly deeper than something a 40
minute snooze can fix (you’re ridiculous if you’re capable of limiting yourself
to 20-minutes). These men (and women) were jaded from war and discontented with
the predictability of their dreary day-to-day duties. By confronting such an
endemic problem that plagued an entire generation, the novel seems to be
historic and is hailed as such; however, there are many novels that employ
these themes/address these issues, and I feel that this particular one receives
undue respect. Why? I’ll tell you!

It’s about a 25-year-old man who lives off the land and
proclaims the mantra, “there was nowhere to go but everywhere” (Kerouac, 26).
Certainly a fun topic in theory, but a lot of it is really kind of boring. Oh,
he hitchhikes here and doesn’t have any money? Oh, he hitchhikes there and
still doesn’t have any money? Look, a pretty squirrel! In my opinion, it was
twice as long as it needed to be. Homeboy travels out west, does a bunch of
drugs, has a lot of sex, and drinks a ton of booze. He goes back to New York
for a hot second until he returns to the west and does it all again. I really
thought I had misplaced my (bombass, homemade) bookmark and was accidentally re-reading
the same passage. As a whole, it gives you the initial rush of impulsive
behavior but once that rush dies out, it’s left seeming long-winded.

And that is partially because it reads like ramblings. It’s
written as a continuous, improvisational letter. This style is experimental,
and I can respect that; however, the instability of the characters and the
frenetic nature of their conversations often render the text incoherent. In
reference to a short-lived love interest, Sal Paradise admits, “Lucille would
never understand me because I like too many things and get all confused and
hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop” (Kerouac, 126).
Well, I understand you about as much as Lucille does. Similarly, Dean frequently
gets really geeked up about a far-fetched plan or an ideal and then engages in
a lengthy passionate tirade that sounds like nonsense. Sure, he’s an engaging
character, but his high-intensity can be overwhelming at times.

So we’ve got a lot of writing, mostly jumbled…but does the
novel effectively communicate something of value (or really anything, even if
not of value) at all? Short answer: nope. It lacks substance. The novel exalts
a lifestyle of impunity and indulgence as a means to fully experience life. Sal
Paradise exudes a spirit of awe and appreciation of what America and the world
has to offer, which is a beautiful and admirable way of approaching existence.
This is precisely what I loved about Into
the Wild, both the book and the film. Alexander Supertramp’s explorations
were imbued with soul-searching philosophies and he reached a meaningful
conclusion at the end of his voyage, even if it was sorrowful. On the Road made similar attempts but in
a less articulate, much more licentious manner. They are “mad drunken Americans
in the mighty land” who half-heartedly chase after “IT” (Kerouac, 55). And I’m not talking about this guy...

They rightfully recognize that there is more to this
world than the traditional schedule of a standard-mold workingman; but they more
so just screw around all the time and then pretend it’s part of a wider, cosmic
significance. Don’t get me wrong, I like to get my young-wild-and-free on, but
I’m also not delusional enough to think that it’s the answer to all of earth’s
problems. At least when Paul Kemp (Hunter S. Thompson) drinks himself to
oblivion in The Rum Diary, he
recognizes the inherent fruitlessness of his debauchery. It was as if Kerouac
wanted to try and talk about IT (a truth larger than the self, a less ephemeral
consciousness) but instead just partied with no self-awareness. Call hedonism
what it is.

Lastly, the novel unfortunately conflates moral
accountability with every day duties. Kerouac thinks that Dean is the absolute
shit. He gives the character an undeserved saintly dimension and worships his
nonchalance. The problem is that Kerouac misconstrues the benefits of a
responsibility-free life, to the detriment of several people. That’s right, I’m
calling out an author who has his name on countless “100-books-to-read-before-you-croak”
lists. Living responsibility-free (no job, no permanent home, no one to answer
to) does not negate all of your moral responsibilities. Quitting my job is one
thing, punching my boss just because I feel like it is another. There are other
people in Sal and Dean’s life whose lives matter too, and they shouldn’t be
sloughed aside just because the men want to live brazenly. That’s some
adolescent bullshit. When describing
Dean, the “Holy Goof”, Kerouac says, “bitterness, recriminations, advice,
morality, sadness—everything was behind him, and ahead of him was the ragged
and ecstatic joy of pure being” (Kerouac, 194). He’s explicitly saying that Dean
foregoes a sense of morality in order to feel awesome and do whatever the hell
he wants. Now, maybe this is some sort of commentary on the deconstruction of
human-imposed morals, but that seems a little too Kantian for Kerouac’s
capabilities (let’s gooooo). To reiterate, I’m not saying that their
road-filled escapades are not freeing and rewarding. But try and avoid this:
“with one illegitimate child in the West somewhere, Dean then had four little
ones and not a cent, and was all troubles and ecstasy and speed as ever”
(Kerouac, 248). It’s all fun and games
until you knock up a bunch of woman all over the country and leave them to fend
for themselves once you get bored. Literally getting turnt up about this.

Now that we have established that
the novel is overly hyped and unduly praised, I have a confession to make. Honestly,
I enjoyed the book significantly more retrospectively than when I was actively
reading it. I finished this novel this past November and recently revisited it
for a book discussion that my friend Aline and I have from time to time. When I
reopened it, it took on a romanticized quality. Kerouac’s travels took place so
long ago, when he could get away with saying, “I had three hundred and
sixty-five miles yet to hitchhike to New York, and a dime in my pocket” without
having to seriously worry about getting his head cut off by a serial killer
(Kerouac, 104). These elusive concepts (inexpensive, easily accessible divorce
just because you woke up and felt like it—no binding alimony or child support,
paying for a three cent meal, etc.) are alluring to us. The impossibility of it
all seems almost utopic. This kind of gallivanting around could never happen
now to that extreme and frankly, that makes me a little jealous. Furthermore,
taken piece-meal, there are plenty of solid lines. Again, it’s mostly
ramblings, but I was able to underline some real gems. One of my personal
favorites, and the inspiration behind many successful diets, I hope: “I ate
another apple pie and ice cream; that’s practically all I ate all the way
across the country, I knew it was nutritious and it was delicious, of course”
(Kerouac, 14). I would be okay with exclusively eating rotisserie chicken and
nerds.

In truth, unlike many reviewers
who accept the novel’s shallowness as an answer to the implicit promise of a
great discovery on the open road, I expected more. It did not change my life;
I’m glad that I read it insofar as now I can make fun of it from an informed
perspective. Its scattered stylistically impressive sentences are enjoyable, but
not enough to compensate for the poorly attempted profundity. I think that I
would probably love Kerouac’s poetry—his yearning for truth, love, and life
would likely read more digestibly in a condensed form. But this is a review of
his novel, and I give it a resounding 2 out of 5 camel humps. If you
want a more effective and satisfying means of escaping mundanity and feeling a
touch of freedom, I recommend jamming out to “Coffee” by Sylvan Esso -- click to have a really good time. And just
FYI, they are playing at Bonnaroo this year, so I’ll use this as a shameless
plug to encourage people to join me at Roo so that we meet our group camping
quota (I gotchu, Ryan Howick).

*Kerouac, Jack. On the
Road. New York: the Penguin Group, 1957. Print.

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Lyndsay West

About Me

I’m a 25 year old lover of reading and writing. I was born and raised in Dallas, Texas, and I graduated from the University of Virginia in 2013. Currently, I live in New York City making my writing mark on the world via freelance work. Other interests include religious studies, philosophy, psychology, dancing, and live music.

Follow my twitter: @humpdayhardback

*Words underlined/highlighted in red are links to websites with more info on the topic.